


Dancing to a Tune All Their Own

by swiftyfrisko



Category: The Serpent Gates - A. K. Larkwood, The Unspoken Name - A. K. Larkwood
Genre: Coffee, F/F, Girls Kissing, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swiftyfrisko/pseuds/swiftyfrisko
Summary: One year after the events of The Unspoken Name, a tale of two girls dealing with life and love and figuring out who they are, buying presents, getting into fights, having dinner and a few other things besides. Because Csorwe and Shuthmili deserve some (relative) downtime before the next big adventure.
Relationships: Csorwe/Qanwa Shuthmili
Comments: 10
Kudos: 6





	Dancing to a Tune All Their Own

Maybe the bow was a bit much. 

Csorwe studied herself uncomfortably in one of the many full length mirrors in Atelier A’ran, by reputation the best tailor in S’oia but not a place she’d had any interest in whatsoever until the past week. Whitewashed walls shaped into organic-looking curves and rounded edges, softened further by ivory and tan hangings in the S’oian style, provided a luxurious haven from the midday sun. 

Maybe the bow would work if it wasn’t so pink.

Perhaps it wasn’t the bow. Perhaps it was the entire dress; a floral mini, accessorized by a large pink bow. Holy shit, what was she thinking? What did she look like? Had she ever, in her entire life, worn anything even remotely in the region of floral? Or mini? 

Lose the bow.

This was a test of character. She had to stay on-mission, focus on the objective and not lose heart and back out. Shuthmili deserved more than the usual worn-in workwear, particularly on a special night, so she should make the effort. Mili would look fabulous as usual. She could make anything look good. Csorwe couldn’t remember that Shuthmili had ever expressed any dissatisfaction with how she dressed or presented herself, but that wasn’t the point; couldn’t she try a little self improvement? She was exploring a new side of herself that had only been permitted to emerge in the past year. This wasn’t all about Shuthmili. Not at all.

Pink wasn’t her color. Maybe green. Green complements gold? 

Maybe it just needed to complement the tusk, and then everything would fall into place. This was what other, normal, girls wore wasn’t it? They looked good in this crap, so why couldn’t she? No reason. None at all. She could do this.

“Nothing in this world has earned the power to frighten you.” Those words had led her, sometimes consciously, often unconsciously, through the years, and had guided her well. If she could face down angry gods, she could wear a dress. All it needed was a little confidence. Csorwe turned to the assistant, a small S’oiani girl with short blonde hair and tasteful tattoos who had been hovering attentively. 

“Mmm?” She inquired, striking a pose, hand on hip, back arched a little in a way she hoped would emphasize ‘girl’ and minimize ‘trained killer’.

The assistant narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, feigning a tough decision. “Not sure it goes with your skin color. Or tusks.”

“Right. That’s what I thought.” 

Thanks. Might as well say it didn’t go with the scar either, or the physique - she admired herself in the mirror and flexed experimentally. She’d added some muscle recently, a result of regular exercise and a good diet in this ocean side town... Stop! Think feminine, girl!

But say no to the dress. 

She turned to the assistant and sighed. “I could use some help. I need something a bit smarter, a bit more, I don’t know, nice. Cool.”

The S’oiani considered the challenge before her. “How about something a little more... adventure-chic.”

“Adventure. You’ve got me. How could you tell?” Csorwe said and fixed the girl with a stare, watching the blonde cutie look up at her, wide eyes flicking nervously over Csorwe’s face, the scar, the golden tusk. 

“Sorry, I kid,” Csorwe smiled, chiding herself for intimidating the locals; naughty, but sometimes she just couldn’t resist. “Great idea. I’ve got adventure down, so if you supply the ‘chic’, this could work.”

“Ok.” The assistant collected herself, momentarily unsettled by this somewhat intimidating Osharuu girl with scruffy hair, distracting scars and an intense look in her golden eyes. “So what’s this for?”

“Special night,” Csorwe replied. “And a hot date.”

“Lucky you.”

“Luckiest girl in the Realms,” she sighed. 

Thirty minutes later, and the operation had reached a successful conclusion. Objective achieved. Csorwe left with an outfit that was more an evolution of her usual ‘work-functional’ style than a complete reinvention; flowing pants and a sleeveless top that she was confident she could carry off. Achieved at a cost; her wallet was significantly lighter than when she’d walked in. Gods, that bodyguard job better work out, or they’d be eating boiled sorn for weeks. But fuck it, she knew this place wasn’t cheap, and it would be worth it, if her Mistress of Magic liked it. And even if she didn’t, this was about her own personal improvement. It was for herself. Right. 

She strode down the narrow, shaded alley swinging the bag and humming a popular tune that had stuck in her head. Something about a boy asking a girl to dance. Nothing could go wrong today, of all days. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


The elderly S’oiani woman watched Shuthmili’s face intently over the top of her spectacles, and said nothing, so the Adept continued.

“She’s like a force of nature. She’s amazing, fearless. I feel so much stronger when I’m with her.” She looked out the small, wood framed window to waves cresting on the cerulean ocean beyond and breathed in the fresh sea air. “To have her near,” she struggled for words for a moment, “it energizes me, but I worry that I lean on her too much.” 

The woman coughed and raised an eyebrow. 

“Enough?” Shuthmili asked.

“Yes and no.” The owner of the bookstore replied. “I only asked what she liked to read.” 

“Qarsazhi fiction. I think I mentioned it somewhere at the start.”

“Ah. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Sorry. I don’t get the opportunity to talk about her very often.”

“I can tell,” said the woman, turning to scan the shelves that covered every wall and formed a miniature labyrinth in the shadowy, musty store, stacked to the ceiling with books of every variety. “So: fiction, Qarsazhi.”

“Yes. An adventure would be nice.” She knew Csorwe wanted to learn more about her place of birth, and something contemporary and fictional would serve the purpose much better than some dense, dreary textbook. 

“You’re in luck.” The woman picked a book from a shelf, on its cover an image of a young wizard wearing round spectacles and a dramatically flowing cloak. “We have a new printing of ‘Qar Darya: Adept Academy’. Ever so popular.”

“Excellent.” Qar Darya would be perfect, providing a flavor of life in a modern Qarsazhi city and their complex attitudes to sorcery. “She’ll love it. She wants to know more about Qarsazhi society.”

“Where is she from?”

“Umm…” Make something up. “Oshaar.” Damn it, why didn’t she just lie? 

“Oh.” The woman hesitated and turned her attention back to the shelves again. “Maybe something a little easier to read...” she murmured.

Shuthmili felt her cheeks burning. “No,” she said coolly. “Qar Darya will be fine. She reads Qarsazhi very well.” There it was again, the preconceptions about Oshaaru that pervaded these regions. Warlike savages, limited in intellect and emotion. These attitudes infuriated and dismayed her, resulting in her becoming so attuned to every slight that she was sometimes no longer sure if they were real or perceived. In this case though, it was unmistakable; the suggestion that Csorwe would be unable to understand Qar Darya was ridiculous. The woman had never even met her. 

“Very well. Such a popular series.” The bookseller said.

Shuthmili pushed her annoyance aside; nothing was going to spoil the day. One down, two to go. Csorwe would love these gifts. She had to. She deserved so much, and Shuthmili felt she’d been neglecting her recently, preoccupied in forging something of a career in this world. It was the first stop in their travels where they had felt anything like settled, and finding work was so important that it justified the time she’d spent. But still, life had become a little unbalanced and she needed to put that right. She would. This was going to be a special night. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Now this was a masterstroke. Csorwe mentally patted herself on the back as she admired the jar of coffee beans, sprung open the lid fastening and inhaled the rich aroma, triggering memories of Old Beltan’s back in Grey Hook. 

“Oh yeah. She’ll love it,” she grinned. This place had taken some finding, but all her digging had finally led to a tiny shop in the old warehouse district of town. The space was full to bursting with jars, sacks, scoops, antique scales and a dizzying array of copper and glass instruments for use in a variety of brewing methods. 

And in her hands, freshly roasted beans from the finest estate in Qarsaz. Mili was such a coffee addict, but she’d been working so hard on that teaching job that she’d not had the chance to find a cup that met her standards. The fact that Csorwe that had found this place and not her said it all. Too many evenings prepping for classes, too many late nights marking papers. She was trying so hard to help them settle in this town that it had left Csorwe increasingly anxious that she wasn’t pulling her weight. The new job would change all that though. 

Mili hadn’t reported on whether the school was happy with her performance, but Csorwe was sure she was killing it. How could she not? She was the most capable Adept in generations, one in millions, beyond exceptional. Teaching the basics of sorcery to a bunch of rich kids was so far beneath her, it made Csorwe’s stomach twist with guilt again. They both loved it here, but surely Mili had a special destiny?

Anyway, she would go crazy over these beans. Finally a use for all that grinding and brewing gear she’d lugged around for the past year, through more than a few worlds. Their travels had been exhausting, and thank the Nine they'd stumbled upon S'oia, a wonder of a town, far from any gates that might bring prying eyes or news that would arouse suspicion. 

The day was going according to plan. Now, to work. Babysit the boss' son for a few hours, and spend the evening with her Sorceress. Her heart quickened and stomach fluttered in anticipation at the thought. Gods, she couldn't wait.

  
  


\-----

  
  


"I need something fingerless, covering past the wrist, but not too heavy." Shuthmili said.

"You use a short sword, or daggers?" The young leathersmith asked dubiously.

"Not for me," she laughed. "My friend. She uses both, anything really."

"Well, you're in the right place. Let's see…" He turned to the racks of garments. 

"She used to have a lovely pair, gifted to her by a very powerful wizard, but we lost them along the way."

"Oh yes?" he replied politely while picking out a black studded pair. 

"Yes,” the Adept continued casually. “One was eaten by a demon in Toros. That was a close call. If it hadn't constipated the foul creature, we never would have survived the ordeal."

"Really?"

"Mmm. The other was transformed into something vile and vampiric by an undead sorceress we encountered in a dimensional rift in the bowels of the catacombs of Jahrtat.” Shuthmili mused, looking around the store. “The disgusting thing latched onto my friend’s wrist and extracted goodness knows how much blood from her before she killed it with her teeth. Absolutely horrendous affair.” 

“Jahrtat. Well...” The leathersmith forgot his search for a moment to regard her with a mixture of awe and concern.

“I would have helped, but I was fighting a dragon at the time,” Shuthmili explained. “Managed to catch it with a disintegration spell, and that was that,” she smiled.

The young man was frozen in bewilderment as he appraised anew his unusual customer: a slight girl with an angular face, ebony eyes framed by dark hair, softly spoken but with a clipped accent that indicated a Qarsazhi of higher breeding. “I would never have guessed. You look more like a school mistress than a dragon vanquishing sorceress, no offence.”

“None taken. I actually am a school teacher! You’re so perceptive,” she beamed. “Tutoring makes a very pleasant change from life and death battles against demons, sorcerers and whatnot. Marginally less dangerous, as well.”

It was true, life in S’oia was significantly more peaceful than most of the past year of travels, but problems didn’t end when there were no more monsters to be fought. Battles of the everyday variety were always around the corner, and had a way of wearing you down until they fatigued you almost as much as the demon fighting sort. 

“You’re in luck,” the leathersmith told her. “I have just the thing.” He presented a pair of long fingerless gauntlets, the leather increasingly ridged and textured towards the wrist and forearm. “Some of my best work,” he said proudly. “Softer leather on the palms for flexibility and dragonskin further up where you need it for protection. Nothing tougher than dragonhide. Rarely get the chance to work with it.” 

“Goodness,” Mili declared, turning them over in her hands. “These are lovely. And they look like a good fit.” She hesitated and continued apprehensively. “But how much are they?” 

“I’d normally ask 6 gold, 10 silver for these,” he began, and Mili winced. “But I’m a believer in destiny and get the feeling they were waiting for a dragon slaying wizard and her warrior, so for you…” He sucked his teeth, as if weighing it up, though the decision was already made; he’d taken a liking to this unlikely adventurer. “...you can pay me half now, half when you’re ready.”

“Really? Thank you!” Mili gushed. “You don’t know what this means to me. She’ll love these. Next time I’m battling a dragon, I’ll try not to disintegrate all of it, and bring some of the skin back for you.”

“That would be lovely. Don’t get yourself killed on my behalf though. If the beast looks like trouble, best disintegrate the whole thing.”

“You are a splendid man,” Shuthmili said, handing over the coins as he wrapped the gauntlets. 

“I’m a sucker for a pretty face, is what I am,” he sighed. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Csorwe folded her arms and wandered from the expansive, marble floored hall onto one of its balconies, to watch gulls swooping and soaring in the late afternoon sky. She unfolded her arms; the uniform was well made, and she looked every inch the bodyguard of someone of importance, but it was a little tight in places. She could still hear the argument in the Ambassador’s office, even out here. 

“...you have a lot to learn. I have enemies now…” Ambassador Droel, a good humored politician that Csorwe had taken an immediate liking to, and suspected the feeling was mutual. When his only bodyguard had run off with a local girl, the scandal had reverberated around S’oia, and it had been a stroke of good fortune that one of Shuthmili’s colleagues had been able to suggest Csorwe as a provisional replacement. 

She’d been surprised to get the job though, since she’d decided it was probably best not to chase Sethennai for a reference and had little option but to make vaguely extravagant and entirely unverifiable claims at the interview. Just went to show what playing hard to get, with a little arrogance on top, could achieve. She suspected her excellent command of Tlaanthothei and Qarsazhi had counted strongly for her. One more thing to (grudgingly) thank the old sorcerer for. 

“I’ll look like an idiot…” the voice of Dran, the Ambassador's son, eager to attend a function that was likely to turn into a party and irritated at being assigned a shadow. 

“Isn’t she fearsome though…” the father chuckled.

“Certainly! But that’s not the point…” Dran continued.

Fearsome. There was a time when Csorwe would have been proud to be regarded this way, with no qualms or twinge of regret. She had lived to serve, and if Belthandros Sethennai’s sword hand was feared, well, that meant she was doing the job right. She had deserved fearsome; she’d earned it in blood. 

But that felt like an age ago. She had since learned to see herself through the eyes of a girl that viewed her not as a fighter to be feared or a tool to be used, but someone to be adored, to be loved, and that could love in return. It had taken time to see herself reflected in Shuthmili’s gaze, as if viewing herself in a mirror for the first time, and accept that it could be real, to believe she could be more. 

She worried sometimes that this would make her weaker, less capable, less fearsome, but it was as if Shuthmili had taken her hand and led her into the sun, after a lifetime in a cold dark place, and returning to that darkness would be unthinkable, more terrifying than any monster she could conceive of.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Dran striding quickly from his father’s office, driven by temper.

“Whatever! I’m going. I’m late,” the young man declared, heading across the hall. 

“Orwen! Accompany my son on his misadventures,” shouted the Ambassador from the other room. She and Mili had both assumed names in this town. Best not to take too many risks.

“Sir!” She set off after Dran, trailing in his wake as he strode through the white arched rooms of the airy villa, to emerge into a cobblestone courtyard containing a fountain and a waiting covered coach pulled by two horses. He climbed in and closed the door, still ignoring her, and she took her seat at the front, next to the driver, who urged the steeds onward. 

They were barely out of the grounds of the estate when a call came from the interior of the coach: “North gardens. Usual place.”

Csorwe turned to the driver. “The North Gardens? I thought the event was in-town.”

The driver shrugged. “He meets a girl there. Every week, this time. Maybe he’ll go to the function after.”

Csorwe rolled her eyes. A girl. No wonder he’d been so reluctant to have her along. And an isolated, regular meeting place; at the arrival of this potential risk, defensive instincts awoke and nagged at her. She had a bad feeling about this.

\-----

The scent of Oshaarun oat cakes wafted up from her bag to reach Shuthmili again, as she watched the ferrymaster cast off from the dock and skip lightly back onto the craft. The ferry was full with commuters returning to the island where she and Csorwe had taken up residence, packed in and sat on rows of bench seats. The cakes hadn’t been cheap, baked specially from a recipe she had supplied, but with both of them earning now, it was affordable. A bit of a gamble; would the cakes invoke pleasant memories of Oshaar or uncomfortable recollections of the House of Silence? 

Shuthmili broke from these considerations on recognizing two women a couple of rows of seats in front of her, parents of children at the academy. They were in conversation, and it was difficult not to overhear. 

“New girl… Qarsazhi. Quite young…”

Were they talking about her? Should she listen in?

“Teaching magic theory. Very capable, I hear…”

They were. 

“L’osai was full of praise,” replied the other woman. “Making very good impressions…”

Shuthmili looked out to the ocean with a barely suppressed smile and glow of satisfaction. All that hard work had paid off. Teaching wasn’t something she’d been trained for, but she liked to think that she’d taken to it naturally. Perhaps staying here longer term wasn’t just a fancy. She imagined for a moment her and Csorwe upgrading to one of those houses on top of L’aru cliff, like they’d seen the other weekend, sitting in the garden together, reading and sipping coffee... 

“...have you seen her though? With that Oshaarun?”

What? No, no...

“Really? Oh dear.” 

“Really. Seen them together a few times.” The woman emphasized ‘together’. 

Fuck them.

“Oshaarun. Hmm. Seems like such a nice girl, but that makes you wonder.”

“It does. What can she see in such a creature? Such a rough looking thing. All tusks and scars.”

“Shame,” the woman tutted. 

Fuck them to hell. She and Csorwe hadn’t tried to hide. Why should they? They’d not understood the ridiculous attitudes held by small minded people who had judged them despite never having met either of them. If she could make these simpering gossips understand a fraction of what she and Csorwe had been through just so they could be together, or the bond they shared, then these women would look at them with awe, not suspicion. But she never could, never would get the opportunity. Damn these people.

The women said nothing more of interest, but their words had poisoned the day, festering and turning in Shuthmili’s stomach as she replayed the conversation over and over, navigating the narrow alleys back home. There was a possibility this could put her position at the academy in jeopardy; the parents were terrible gossips, and some of them might have a strong prejudice. If they voiced their concerns to the school board, who knew what might come of it. Perhaps it was wiser to stay in more, appear out in public less, or go to quieter places. Could she do that? How could she ask such a thing of Csorwe?

Home was small but comfortable, cut into the sea cliffs of the island with an aspect that caught the rays of a setting sun and a tiny porch that was shaded in the morning. The interior was decorated in the typical S’oian style, curved and light, the narrow living area leading to the bedroom and bathroom beyond. Shuthmili collapsed onto the sofa and picked up a note that had been left on the low table: “Babysitting job came up late and I cannot refuse. I’ll be working until 8 but will still make it or die trying! Sorry! Love C. xxx” 

She sighed and reclined on the sofa. The new bodyguard job. Csorwe had been delighted to get it, but there was a lot they didn’t know about her new boss, and Shuthmili couldn’t help but worry sometimes. Silly, she knew, but what if something bad happened? Exalted sages, she hoped Csorwe wouldn’t be held up today of all days. 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Csorwe scanned the ornamental gardens again, an expanse of tall hedges, flowerbeds, small trees and fountains that covered the cliff tops north of the main town. She couldn’t see much though, positioned where she was. Hedges created blind spots everywhere, making this the perfect place for an ambush. The Ambassador was short-staffed, she knew, but she couldn’t be expected to give the required level of security under these conditions. She cursed under her breath again and wondered how and whether she should report this to him on her return. 

Even getting Dran to agree to her being stationed inside the gardens had been difficult; he wanted privacy, it was always empty, he could defend himself if it came to it. Csorwe had come close to telling him that if it came to ‘it’, he’d better get the hell out of her way, but had bit her tongue and exercised diplomacy at that point in the debate. Dad paid the bills, but it would be best not to make an enemy of the Son. So, here she was, just around the corner from the fountain where the young man and the daughter of a prominent trader sat, deep in conversation and flirtation. Not quite within earshot of a normal chat, but easily called. Permitted to glance around the corner to check on them but not be permanently visible. Compromise, she sighed.

She looked around the corner at the couple, perched on the edge wall of the fountain. Dran smiling at some witticism, the girl poised and attentive in long blue skirts. Situation normal. 

A flash of movement caught her eye, some way off in a small gap between two hedges. And again. Two people had passed the gap, moving quickly. Then a third, running in the same direction.

Csorwe edged slowly into the fountain courtyard, watching closely for further signs of unusual activity, ignoring Dran’s irritated stare at her intrusion. Her instincts were alerted but she needed to be more certain; dragging him and the girl out of here because some kids were playing hide and seek would be a disaster that would lose her the job. Confirmation came quickly as she saw movement behind some bushes that were less dense than the hedges; three people, not children, rushing towards the opposite side of the courtyard, keeping low and moving in a manner entirely unlike the usual meandering visitors. 

There were only seconds to get between the couple and the intruders. “Dran, get out!” she hissed as she broke into a run, drawing her sword, watching his annoyance become fear as he turned to see the first of the attackers round the hedge into the courtyard, short sword in his hands and murder in his eyes.

That familiar narrowing of focus, her opponent made vivid, illuminated by heightened senses, the rest of the world retreating into a dull shadow. Time slowing, mind clear and calm, to allow training to be executed to the fullest. Training helped, but she knew now that this ability was instinctive, reliant on a taste, not fear, for combat.

And this fight would be simple; she had taken the attacker by surprise and watched him struggle to assess the unexpected threat she posed. He had been rash in wanting to claim the kill for himself, and now he was too many paces ahead of the comrades that might have saved him.

Csorwe easily parried a strike that lacked commitment, to run him cleanly through the chest, his eyes wide, gasping in shock, pulling her blade free to be ready for the next. The next fared little better, fencing competently for a second or two before he was open to a slashing blow to the neck, falling, crying out as he made a vain attempt to hold in life as it slipped in red streams through desperate fingers. 

The third had started to run when the first fell and was sprinting away, vaulting a low hedge. Pursue or not? She needed to stay with Dran; there could be more. Csorwe turned back to the fountain and ran along the winding path towards the exit and - hopefully - the waiting coach. But that coach was an obvious target and there could be more attackers waiting there. This was a mess. Who were these people? 

Csorwe silently thanked the Nine; the coach was where they’d left it, Dran and the girl scrambling in, the driver calling to her. She leapt up to take her seat next to him and he bellowed a command to the horses, flashing the reins, urging them on. The steeds got the message, and the coach picked up speed quickly.

The wind whipped through her hair as they barrelled along the gritty track towards the town and sunset. Csorwe suppressed a smile as a familiar satisfaction filled her. She’d won, survived the threat. Still here. She felt so alive in those moments of bloody purpose where life and death balanced on an edge, the direction they would fall in her hands, her fate reliant on skills and wits that had been honed keener than a blade. Sethennai was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Was that what he had seen all those years ago; a girl stood on the edge who took her life into her own hands and wouldn’t hesitate when called upon to do so again? Could she ever leave these moments behind for a quiet existence in a small town, or was violence and death always going to be her destiny? 

Pain at her wrist pushed through diminishing adrenaline. She’d been nicked by a blade. Not serious, but making a mess. The uniform had ripped across the back anyway, she realised. Csorwe reflected on how lucky they’d been and the many worse ways it could have ended. She and the Ambassador would have a frank conversation about the nature of his ‘enemies’ on her return. This could all work in her favor; if he liked her before, he’d want to have her babies now. 

\-----

Shuthmili walked the sun-bright alleys alone, watched by rows of faces behind closed windows, all of them wearing a uniform stare of disapproval. She was looking for home, but the alleys were unfamiliar and twisted and turned to lead her further and further away, her anxiety increasing with every corner that revealed another narrow street and more staring faces glaring behind glass. 

Then she heard it, somewhere behind her in the maze of alleys, unseen. A scraping of chains on stone as it shambled it's hideous, limping steps towards her, driven by an endless hunger. It had found her. The Mouth had never stopped searching and it never would.

She broke into a run, flying down darkening passages, around corner after corner, not caring where she was headed, not daring to look behind, not wanting to see again the monster that still haunted her. The alleys were so dark now that she could barely see where she was going, but she was too terrified to slow down. The sound of the chains, its shuffling steps and its terrible, sighing breath grew louder, filling the world. It was too close now. She was doomed. It would be on her in a second. 

And then she saw her. A distant figure, hidden in the shadows at the end of a long straight alley. Just a dark shape, but one she knew so well, unmistakable. The sight filled Shuthmili with a new strength and she sprinted to her, feeling the heat of the breath of the Mouth at her neck, the end near. She threw herself into waiting arms, buried her face in a familiar embrace, lost in the warmth of a body she never wanted to let go. The Mouth of Radiance roared in useless, furious torment somewhere behind her, a million miles away. Let it. She didn’t care, she was safe now. “What took you so long?” Csorwe said, a smile in her voice. 

Shuthmili woke with a start. The apartment was dark. Damn it, what was the time? This night wasn’t going to fail due to lateness on her part. Whether Csorwe made it or not, she was going to be there. She walked groggily to the bedroom to light a couple of alchemicals and consulted a clock. Time enough to get dressed up, put her best face on, and get herself and the presents to L’ora and the table they’d booked for 9. Let’s get to it.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Csorwe had never noticed how slow this damn ferry was before. Now she couldn’t think of anything else, standing near the exit ramp, clutching her pack that contained the new outfit and jar of coffee beans. Another 10 minutes crossing the channel, 10 minutes at least up the hill to L’ora. By the Nine, she’d be a sweaty mess if she ran that in 10. Mili would be at their favorite table, which had a wonderful view of the ocean but not of the entrance, so she could get to the washroom unseen and change in there. So, 25-30 minutes, at least. And the time was… she searched for a clock and found none. Probably coming up for 9. Damn, shit. Today of all days. 

Still, silver linings. Ambassador Droel had hailed her as The Best Bodyguard Ever and himself to be an outstanding judge of character, now she’d made good on her previously unsubstantiated boasts. Safe to say she was out of probation; the job was hers permanently, and probably expanded to include tutoring Dran on swordcraft. 

Couldn’t this thing go any faster? Were they fighting the tide? Gods... 

  
  


\-----

  
  


Ten past nine. Something had gone wrong. She knew it. Shuthmlil sat at their table in L’ora, fidgeted with a glass of wine and chewed her lip. Until she remembered she was wearing lipstick - not a common occurrence - and stopped, hoping the damage wasn’t visible. She took another careful sip of wine; Tlaanthothei, their favorite and if Csorwe didn’t get here soon she might just end up drinking the whole damn bottle herself.

And everything was so perfect otherwise. L’ora was their place, a quiet little seafood restaurant just outside of town, and this was their table, on the balcony, a perfect view of the ocean and harbor. 

Where could she be? Something had happened to her. Being a bodyguard was an inherently dangerous job. Csorwe said that Droel fellow had been anxious about security for the last few days. Why? His previous bodyguard had run off - perhaps he knew something they didn’t. Csorwe seemed to think she was invincible after all she’d been through, but all it took was just one angry man with a knife. 

Csorwe helpless, lying on cold ground, cut open, the life in her eyes slipping away, every breath weaker than the last. Shuthmili’s mind returned again to that day on the Traitor’s Grave, the images always there, ready for a moment of fear and anxiety to find them and parade them before her unwilling eyes. It was easier when they were fighting together, so much harder apart. 

The view was lovely and the wine wonderful. Have another sip and stop this. She’s fine. She’ll be here any minute.

But she said she’d be here or die trying. Shuthmili glanced around at the entrance again. 

\-----

She’d been right: a 10 minute run and a sweaty mess, but that bloody ferry had taken too damn long. Mili would be here already; she was always on time. Csorwe opened her pack in the restroom of L’ora and pulled out the Atelier Aran bag containing the new outfit. Screw getting into a cramped cubicle, easier to change here and take the chance that nobody enters. 

One minute later and she stood opposite the - thankfully - full length mirror and took stock of the situation: crumpled but acceptable. But fuck it, it wasn’t acceptable: she said she would be here for 9, and it was now… what, 15, 20 minutes past? Mili’s been sat there for goodness knows how long by herself on what was supposed to be a perfect night, looking gorgeous, only to be met by a late, sweaty, crumpled mess. 

Csorwe studied her reflection. What was she? A fighter or a lover? Was she someone that killed men with knives and swords and felt satisfaction at a job well done or a girl that bought flowery dresses and had romantic candlelit dinners? She used to have such a clear purpose, an identity that she understood even if it wasn’t perfect, and was comfortable existing within those parameters. And now there was so much about herself she was unsure of. Shuthmili had brought so many things into her life, and it was more complicated now. Who was she? 

She broke away from these thoughts; better not keep Mili waiting any longer. She stuffed the pack, smoothed her hair and the top and departed the restroom. An unease filled her, about herself, about Shuthmili, about everything, all the more unsettling because it was this night, and- 

And then she saw her. 

Sat at their table, gazing out at the darkening sky and ocean. She saw long delicate brows, the upturn at the end of her long straight nose, the contour of slender calves into ankles and graceful feet, a sandal dangling from her toes. She saw the curve of lashes over eyes so dark she would lose herself in them again and again. Long dark hair, tucked behind her ear, that she loved to bury herself in, during sleepy mornings and long tender nights. Lips that promised so much, reddened by lipstick. 

Qanwa Shuthmili was the most amazing, most beautiful person she had ever laid eyes on. And for about the hundredth time in a year, Csorwe fell in love. And nothing else mattered. Here was her purpose and her place in the universe, and she felt like the world's most hopeless idiot for ever doubting.

\-----

Shuthmili looked again at the bag of presents, then the fading sky, and took another sip, which turned into more of a gulp this time. What if Csorwe had been hurt? Bodyguard; that could encompass all kinds of dirty, dangerous jobs. Who knows what this Ambassador had her involved in? They hardly knew anything about him. And she’d do it, whatever it was, because she wants the job, wants to make them secure here. Images of Csorwe lying in her own blood flashed before her again. And those damn women, the bloody parents, gossiping about her, spreading lies. They were going to undo all the hard work she’d done, all her dreams of settling into a happy, comfortable life here. Her stupid fucking dreams. Her mind slipped to an image of Csorwe lying in the dark somewhere out there in the night, dying, the light in her eyes fading away. Something had happened to her, she knew it. 

The sound of familiar footsteps made her glance around, and there she was, walking towards her, a smile on her lips and a look in golden eyes that made her heart beat stronger. Shuthmili felt like a perfect fool. Csorwe was here, of course she was here because she’d sworn to never leave her and Shuthmili believed in her more than the sun and the moon and stars. Together they could defy the world, cheat death, defeat empires, humble gods and kings. When she was with her she could do anything.

Shuthmili stood to greet her and they kissed, and gods she loved the feel of cool gold on her cheek. And the world was right again. Everything was just wonderful. 

What was she wearing?

“Well. Look at you,” Shuthmili smiled, stepping back to take in the entirety of Csorwe of Oshaar.

“It's Adventure-chic,” declared Csorwe theatrically, turning around so the Adept could better appreciate it.

“You look fabulous. I am positively blown away.” 

“Thanks. Really? It’s a bit of a departure, I know.”

“Really. I love it. Great choice.” Csorwe looked good in the outfit; she had an athletic poise that its lines made appear elegant, even glamorous. 

“I tried a dress as well. But, you know, I was just too hot. Wasn’t sure the world was ready for it.”

“Oh, I would have loved to see that,” Shuthmili frowned playfully.

“You wish. I was so hot, I was a fire hazard. Had to take it off fast - they were about to throw sand over me.”

“Wow. That hot.” 

“Well, I have to make an effort when I’m standing next to the most gorgeous girl in town.”

“Smooth.” Shuthmili rolled her eyes and reseated herself. “Yes, you need to pour on the compliments. I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it.”

“Sorry about that. Don’t worry though, I am now a superstar bodyguard. They all love me, even the brat.”

“Should I ask why?” Shuthmili looked at her dubiously. 

“I’ll tell you all about it later,” Csorwe assured her, pouring herself a glass. “For now, let’s raise a glass.”

“To our great escape and our first year of freedom. The sweetest of years,” Shuthmili said.

“May there be many more,” Csorwe replied. Gods, she could watch Mili in this candlelight forever. 

“What’s that?” Shuthmili pointed at the rough bandage around Csorwe’s bleeding wrist. “You’re hurt.”

“Ah, just a scratch. You should see the other guy.”

Mili glared at her over the top of her glass as she took another sip.

“On second thoughts,” Csorwe winced. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Ah,” the Adept remembered, then threw her hands up in exasperation. “It seems my present is a little late.” She placed the bag on the table and took out the gauntlets. “For you.”

Csorwe unwrapped them. “Exactly what I needed! Ohh… Dragonhide,” she gushed appreciatively, “I love them.” 

“And also,” Shuthmili removed the book. “You’ll like this. Qar Darya - everyone loves him. He’s an apprentice adept, goes to a big academy for sorcery in Qaradoun, gets caught up in plots and mysteries. Ever so popular.”

“Thanks Mili,” Csorwe turned the book over in her hands. “So my hints didn’t fall on deaf ears. This will educate and entertain me,” she said with mock seriousness. 

Csorwe placed the book on the table next to the gauntlets and regarded the two presents together for a moment. “I love them both,” she said. “They’re perfect.”

“I’m so glad you like them.” 

“I can have them both,” Csorwe realized.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Shuthmili, watching the Oshaaru’s face, puzzled. “They’re both for you.”

“I don’t need to choose one or the other,” Csorwe insisted and looked up to smile at her.

“Yes... No choice required,” Shuthmili explained. “You are permitted to both read and fight, just not at the same time. Are you feeling ok?”

“Wonderful. Just great. Mili, you are the best,” Csorwe sighed.

“Ok. You’re acting a little oddly.”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Leaving everything for later. How mysterious.”

“Oh, Ms Qanwa,” Csorwe arched an eyebrow. “You have no idea what I’m leaving for later.”

Shuthmili arched one straight back. “Promises, promises, Ms Csorwe. I can hardly wait.” 

“However,” she continued. “I have one more thing for you, for right now.” Shuthmili produced the bag of oat cakes. 

Csorwe opened the bag. “Where in the name of the Nine did you get these?” She pushed her nose into the bag and inhaled deeply, eyes closed. “Mmmmm. Reminds me of when I was tiny, back in Oshaar. Good times,” she sighed.

“Ok, so,” Csorwe continued. “You got me three presents. Not really fair. I’m counting this dazzling outfit as one for you, a feast for your eyes.”

“I am becoming rather hot and bothered simply by observing you in it,” Shuthmili exhaled sharply and fanned herself. 

“But I have two more. At a stretch.” Csorwe produced the coffee beans from her pack and presented them to Shuthmili. “Qarsazhi. Zran Mountains.”

Shuthmili opened the lid, breathed in the aroma, died of ecstasy, ascended to coffee heaven, carried by the wafting bouquet, was reborn to the mortal plane, snapped the lid shut and clutched the jar to her chest. 

She groaned orgasmicaly. “My horribly neglected coffee addiction shall rise from the ashes of under stimulation. Breakfast will never be the same again.” 

“Wow, ok. Thought you’d like those,” Csorwe said. “Even better, tomorrow I’ll show you where I got them. You’ll die when you see this place. That’s my third present. Told you it was a stretch.” 

“I’ll allow it. To the Great Escape,” said Shuthmili, raising her glass. 

“To the Great Escape,” Csorwe repeated, as the last of the evening light faded from the horizon and the two girls talked, drank and ate some very good seafood, watching fireflies dance in the dark.

  
  


\-----

  
  


“You’re doing very well,” Shuthmili said quietly.

“Mmm.”

“Really, you’re doing fine.”

“Shush. Concentrating,” Csorwe hissed, her right hand on Mili’s waist, left hand holding the shorter girl’s right as they flowed through well-practiced steps.

The band played on, a slow paced, romantic tune that they performed as part of their repertoire every week in this small square in the old town, surrounded by ancient defensive walls and slightly newer buildings. It was a communal tradition that the locals met, to chat and dance over a few drinks on this evening, before the weekend, and the square was buzzing with conversation and laughter. The two girls had visited a number of times but never danced, and after deciding that this was a necessary rite of passage, embarked on evenings of preparation, Shuthmili having a reasonable idea of the steps and Csorwe none at all. 

Csorwe focused, determined not to let Mili down. The feel of these evenings was always very casual and inclusive, and nobody would judge a clumsy dancer harshly, but they were the new girls in town, and she knew that eyes would be on them. This didn’t concern her particularly, but she knew Shuthmili was sensitive to these things. The tune came to its end, met by a smattering of polite applause and the two girls disengaged to weave their way back to where they had left their almost empty wine glasses. 

“That was excellent,” Shuthmili assured her.

“Thanks.”

“Considering,” she teased.

“Considering what?”

“Considering you’d never even tried this until about a week ago, and you have a terrible teacher.”

“I thought you were going to say ‘considering you’re a clumsy, uncultured warrior from Oshaar’” Csorwe gave her the side-eye.

“Certainly not,” Shuthmili protested. “I’d say you’re more a brawler than a warrior.”

“Thanks.”

The band struck up another tune. “Ah,” said Shuthmili, putting her glass down. “We know this one. Come on. Left hand on my shoulder. I’m leading.”

Csorwe really was picking this up well, reflected Shuthmili, as they glided through the steps. She was enjoying this enormously, and they’d have to do it again. Then she caught sight of the parent from the ferry, the woman who had gossiped about her and Csorwe, standing with a group of people she didn’t recognize. The woman watched the dancers, and for a moment, caught Shuthmili’s eye. Mili turned her attention back to Csorwe, still feeling eyes upon her, but she knew just how to handle them now.

She unclasped her hand from Csorwe’s and reached around the back of the taller girl’s neck, pulling her into a kiss. She felt the warmth of lips, soft against hers, and tusks cool and hard against her cheeks. She held her there for a delicious moment, then released her to trace with fingertips the line on the Ohsaaru’s skin, from her forehead, down across her cheek, brushing her lips to rest where the scar ended at her chin. Csorwe abandoned the dance to take the Adept's face in both hands and touch lips to hers, and Shuthmili found herself, as she always did, transported to a place where she wasn’t a sorcerer or a monster or a gateway to a dragon god, just a girl that needed to be kissed.

“Gods, I can’t wait to get you home,” whispered Csorwe.

Shuthmili considered looking across to see if the woman was still watching them, but found she hardly cared, wrapped in the arms of the girl that was the world, her feel, her scent, her closeness, their faces almost touching. 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” she wondered, gazing into amber eyes.

“Apart from save my life?”

“No, really,” Shuthmili insisted. “What did I do?”

“Mili, it’s not what you do. It’s who you are.”

They held each other as the evening bustled and hummed around them, each lost in the other, the passing of time unnoticed, dreaming of togetherness in a place only they shared, dancing to a tune all their own.

“I love it here,” Shuthmili said, watching the dancers and drinkers start to drift away into the night.

“Me too. Things seem to be going well for us, for a change. Could we stay here, do you think?” wondered Csorwe. 

“I don’t know,” Shuthmili sighed. “I have a suspicion that the gods that write our story have other, more dramatic and adventurous plans for us.”

“Yeah,” Csorwe said, resigned. “I guess eventually I’ll have to deal with this.” She looked at the sigil on her hand. “And you with your burn-out syndrome, although those gauntlets did wonders for Sethennai.”

“Indeed. Fingers crossed for those.” 

“So how long do you think we have here?”

“How long do we ever have, anywhere? We can never know,” Shuthmili said. “But while it lasts, I, for one, intend to enjoy every moment of it.”

“Agreed,” Csorwe said and then grinned wickedly. “And that reminds me of what I was saving for later.” She took Shuthmili’s hand, leading her in the direction of the apartment. “Let’s go home.”

The band packed up and went home, the square was left empty and silent, but the kisses and dancing continued long into the night and beyond. And when Qanwa Shuthmili thought she surely could not die and go to heaven any more times, she did so again the next morning, taken there by Qarsazhi coffee beans, Oshaaru oat cakes, and most of all by sharing a view across the glittering ocean to a brand new day. 

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end! You rock! Really, you've made my week. I'm going to have a cupcake to celebrate. Cheers.
> 
> Loved these two and had to get them together again without anybody getting maimed, tortured or having a near death experience. They had it rough in The Unspoken Name!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Can't wait to read the next book...


End file.
